Dear Friend, Here on the East Coast as winter begins to melt into spring. I spend time walking the land near my home in all types of weather. We awaken to frosty mornings of ice and snow that lull us into warming sunlight or rainy afternoons. The variations are so abundant that I am never bored with nature’s elemental gifts. When wandering the forest, I find gentle reminders of the endless changes we endure during our lifetime. I feel humbled by the earthen congregation that forms a perfect union, benefitting all that gather here in this woodland paradise. Today I am curious about the rain as it falls in a quiet symphony upon my hood. How many times have I watched the rain, but to rest in one single drop. What would that feel like? I imagine myself falling from the sky with violence and velocity, hurling towards the Earth with a sense of unknowing. Where will I go next? What is my path? How far will I fall? The possibilities create wild curiosity within me. The many forms a raindrop becomes has my thoughts primed with endless story. I contemplate how I might enjoy being absorbed by the Earth, feeling myself pulled into the soil. Twisting through narrow spaces amongst the soft pine needle bed, welcomed into rich humus. The deep earthen smell of desiccating vegetation, warming the soon to sprout seedlings. Traveling along roots and mycelial pathways, only to transform again. I am now a water source. The big pine tree whose powerful roots shift layers of rock and soil for the strongest base to stand upon draws me in. How might my energy shift as I travel up this mighty trunk? I am a source of nutrients, hydration, and a giving life force. The pine tree is grateful for the gift of rain, needles begin to swell with refreshment. I can sense that Pine is preparing for growth, sending me to those areas most in need. Once again, I shapeshift. Released from the tree a glorious vapor, becoming mist light and free. Floating ever so slowly across the treetops, skyward back to my origin. A billowy cloud spreading through vast landscapes. Billions of raindrops, all with a different transformational timeline. Various and intricate like the snow that is beginning to fall while the sun sets. Cold rejoins me on this walk, changing my raindrop again for the next journey, a brilliant and shimmering frozen crystal. Wistfully twirling back to earth, where the nature beings eagerly await. Inviting our imagination to come walking we open our hearts to all of nature’s lessons. The raindrops are reminders of my own life shifts, transformation of this physical body and my thought processes. The boundless reciprocity offered by all beings of this precious earth. How each being holds great importance in the circle. The journey of a raindrop has limitless possibilities and so do we. From my heart to yours. For the Earth, Karen Franza
Dear Friend, A long time ago it seems, in my late 20s, I heard a call. It was no ordinary call. I was driving across the United States, from the frenetic world of New York City toward California. My friends were in a car in front of me and we were crossing through Arkansas, along the Arkansas River Valley and the edge of the Ozark Mountains. It all happened so quickly. Within seconds, I began to cry with a force that took over my being. And it was then, I heard the call. My own voice spoke. “Go to the Sandia Mountains,” it said as I looked up, through teary eyes, at a sign marking the city of Alma along the highway. How ironic it seemed to hear myself saying the words of a place I didn’t know existed, and for this to have happened upon passing a city named Alma, which means “soul” in Spanish. My mind soon concluded that the Sandia Mountains were in California, most likely in Los Angeles, since it was reasonable I’d do well in the film world after years of working as a photojournalist and writer. But nature, and that of the wild soul, works in mysterious ways. There’s nothing rational about it. So, when I landed in New Mexico on the way to California, something nudged me to stay. My friends went onto the West Coast and a week in New Mexico soon turned into eight months. And there I was, living in Albuquerque where, unbeknownst to me (or at least at the beginning), the Sandia Mountains hovered above. My story of that unusual call of twenty-plus years ago is a long one. But what I can say, is there, in New Mexico, I injured myself and while I moved to California eight months later, I made a pact with the land to one day return. That was the beginning of a long and arduous healing journey, which ultimately brought me back to New Mexico in my late 30s in 2008. Today, I live in a house that looks toward those same Sandia Mountains that called me. And more recently, a part of my soul, which had chosen to stay here in the mountains as I struggled to find home elsewhere, returned to me in a soul retrieval. Today, the duendes, the elves and nature spirits, of this land are with me. Yet there are plenty of times I don’t listen. I get caught up in the hustle of daily life and forget their presence, forget the call of the land, of our Earth, and lose my way. But this mysterious force is always waiting for me, and for all of us, inside the mountains and valleys of our Earth. Have you ever been called by a place inside nature? Have you heeded that call, or did you take the long way home as I did after years of distractions and misguided modern living? No matter the answer, I can say that nature will wait for us, and always does, to come back home. The question is, “Are you ready to listen?” From my heart to yours. For the Earth Michelle Adam, OMEC Contributor, Storyteller, Teacher & Author of Child of Duende and earth-centered children’s stories 
Dear Friend, New England’s summer warmth is a distant memory. Although we’re a month beyond the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere, the sun still seems to disappear behind the Berkshire hills just as I’ve seized the day. We may bemoan shorter days and cold seasons, revering summer’s growth, brightness, and activity. Adding to the extra work and challenges cold, dark seasons bring, they can intensify internal shadows and make the world’s chaos feel even more foreboding. Yet, many plants and animals need dark, cold dormancy to regenerate in the spring. Just so, winter is a time for humans to restore, reflect and dream. Befriending the darkness and slower rhythms feeds our creativity and our sense of belonging with the natural world. Withered, weathered plants peek out, faded browns and grays amidst encrusted snow. They appear dead, though they are not. They are still asleep, their energy drawn into their roots within the earth. Prompted by nature’s inward rhythms, in the winter I grow even more reclusive. As if wrapping myself in a heavy velvet cloak, I relax back into our Earth Mother’s arms to dream and muse. Sensing into plant and tree roots beneath the insulating ground and snow, I tune into the subtle melodies moving through these webworks. I listen with my whole being as the roots sing ancient tales – amazing stories of who we and our living planet really are. There are endless illumined pathways like this under the earth that through my imagination I enter and wander upon. When I’ve absorbed the goodness of the underneath places, I feel human enough – of the earth enough – to be more present with the life that moves on the earth’s surface, like squirrels running circles around each other and leaping like acrobats between barren branches. Bundled in warm, wooly layers I watch them, the village sounds muffled when we’re lucky enough to have a snowfall. My body is as still as a stone statue as the crisp, chilled air stings my nostrils and creates little clouds of fog with each of my breaths out. This air I breathe is shared with wintry winged ones, such as black-capped chickadees, tufted titmice and white breasted nuthatches that look like little puffballs with feathers raised to trap warm air for insulation against the cold. The small birds lunge through space as exuberantly as the squirrels. Larger birds such as stellar and blue jays, bright red cardinals and woodpeckers appear more measured. Among them, the diligent downy woodpecker captures my heart. Its black and white wing patterns appear painted by nature’s most sensitive artists. Adding to the mystery of its design is the splash of red on the back of the male downy head. I watch, listen, touch with my body and heart into this winter-wonderworld. As my stillness and presence deepen, I imagine nature sensing into me. The fringes of this rural village are wooded, scruffy and untamed, wildly inviting for the animals, birds, spirits, and me. The land beyond yawns out to tiny hamlets nestled among the diversified landscapes of the rolling hills including highland bogs and plateaus, forests and meadows, lakes and ponds, meandering rivers, and streams. On cavernous, wintry nights my dreaming-self slips light as a feather, quiet as a whisper, from my heavy slumbering body to wander aimlessly through these magical terrains. There are those who warn us not to get lost in our dreams, or to live in our imagination – that there are more important things to do, and ruminate about, plans to make, and sides to take. Yet, it is through imagining that nature reveals life’s most precious and hopeful gifts. Dreaming is where I find myself. Dream well and deeply, my friend. From my heart to yours. For the Earth. Llyn Cedar Roberts, MA OMEC Founder
Hello Friend, Snow and ice have started here in the Catskill Mountains of New York, USA. The local streams have shimmery delicate frozen edges that in a month’s time will have expanded and solidified. The deer and turkey are making regular rounds to our barn looking for every scrap that they can get to fatten up before the real cold starts. My small forge is no longer enough to keep my workshop warm, so my woodstove is running and adding its cheery light and smell to my workspace. December has a lot on the menu to offer. Meteorologically, winter starts with the beginning of this month. We have new moons in the 1th and 30th, a full moon, the Cold Moon, on the 15th, the Geminid meteor shower mid-month, and the Winter Solstice on 21th. For those of you who follow the Maya cosmology the month starts with the end of the trecena of E’(Road) continues with the full trecenas of Kan (Snake/Serpent) and Tijax (Flint) and has B’atz (Monkey) starting on the 29th and leading into the new year. Here in the Northern Hemisphere many cultures will be celebrating their traditional winter holidays. I have always been fascinated by winter. There is a brilliant quality to the sky, day or night, when the weather turns cold. The forest is quiet and still. The more than human world is tucked in. It is the time where I settle into looking at what has manifested over the past Gregorian year and examine how I have responded. I ask myself if I engaged in the same habitual way or - did I try something different? Have opportunities to show gratitude, generosity, compassion, attention, or gentleness slipped by because I was unmindful? Did I fully engage with the experiences I had rather than try to collect them? When I stepped out of the forest did the landscape, internally as well as externally, feel more whole? The contemplative, cold, restful season gives time for reflection. The litany of questions I have for myself to mull over for the winter varies little from year to year. The answers shift and slide over time as they should. The answers are not about being better or worse, that’s not the point, they are about being more authentic and present for whatever is arising. What do you reflect about as the long, cold, shadow enriched winter sets in? From my heart to yours, Christopher T. Franza OMEC Board of Directors 
Embracing the Wisdom of Crows: My Personal Journey with Nature's Misunderstood Guardians Dear Friend, In the early mornings, as the world stirs to life, the rhythmic caws echoing through the trees energize my senses. These sounds belong to a creature often wrapped in mystery and myth—crows. My journey into understanding these fascinating birds has transformed my perspective and unveiled the profound wisdom they share with us. My love for nature has always been strong, but my first encounter with a crow ignited a new passion. One crisp autumn day, while walking in my local park, I spotted a lone crow perched on a low branch. As I approached, it looked at me with an intelligence I had never associated with birds before. I stood still, mesmerized by how it shifted its gaze, as if contemplating my presence. This moment marked the beginning of my relationship with crows. I started observing their intelligence, social interactions, and ability to adapt. Did you know crows can recognize human faces? Research studies indicate that they remember individuals who have threatened them and can communicate this information to other crows, highlighting a sophisticated social network. Despite their intelligence, crows often bear the weight of negative superstitions. Historically linked to death and darkness, they are misunderstood beings that play a vital role in our ecosystem. I learned that these myths stem from fear of the unknown. Crows are, in fact, crucial for ecological balance, acting as scavengers that remove dead animals. According to studies, a single crow can consume up to 150 grams of food daily, aiding in waste management. This newfound understanding of crows shifted my perspective from seeing them as dark silhouettes to recognizing them as vital members of our environment. As I continued to observe crows in my neighborhood, I uncovered incredible insights into their behaviors. Their playfulness and critical thinking skills amazed me. One day, I witnessed a murder of crows engaging in a game. They dropped peanuts in the shell onto the road, waiting for passing cars to crack them open. Afterward, they swooped down to enjoy the spoils. This demonstrated their impressive intelligence and strategic thinking. Their social structures also fascinated me. Crows form strong familial bonds and live cooperatively. They communicate through various calls and gestures, demonstrating emotional depth. In fact, research has shown that crows can even feel empathy; they have been observed comforting each other in distress. As my connection with these birds deepened, I discovered rich symbolism associated with crows across cultures. They often represent wisdom, transformation, and adaptability. In many Indigenous cultures, crows are seen as tricksters and creators, playing essential roles in spiritual teachings. This connection resonated with me, prompting reflection on my life. Like crows, I realized resilience and adaptability are vital for navigating challenges. Embracing the spirit of crows encouraged me to find wisdom in my journey with crows and acknowledge how truly transformative it has become. These majestic creatures have reshaped my worldview and deepened my connection to nature. Embracing the wisdom of crows has led me to appreciate the often-overlooked wonders around us. Through their intelligence, resilience, and social complexity, crows remind us there is far more to life than meets the eye. They are not just shadows in our environment but teachers of patience, adaptability, and wisdom. I encourage all nature lovers to open their hearts and minds to these misunderstood guardians. Embracing the spirit of crows brings us closer to understanding not only the natural world but also our place within it. From my heart to yours, Lori Ferry’ Board Member, OMEC
Dear Friend, The cool nights and dewy mornings of autumn have arrived here in the rainforest on the Oregon Coast in the Northern hemisphere of the United States. Now is when salmon are making their way upriver to spawn, black bear is calorie loading for winter, and elk bugle and battle to attract a mate from the herd. Almost everywhere I look I find examples of life’s ancient rhythm of survival. It is also the time when deciduous trees turn toward dormancy and surrender their leaves to join the unmatched choreography that announces the transition of seasons. The awe-inspiring display of color and movement calls to me. I’m especially attracted to a towering bigleaf maple who lives on the river’s edge; I sense she is a wise teacher. She hangs over the water, dripping with wisdom and epiphytes like moss, lichen, and ferns. She has already done so much this year: her blossoms provided pollen and nectar for bees, deer and elk browsed her new growth, and squirrels, chipmunk, and many birds feasted on her seeds. Her lush canopy of thick limbs and wide leaves provided shade and coolness from summer’s warm days for crawdad, kingfisher, and fisherperson. She can do all this because of the energy produced through photosynthesis. With the help from sun, soil, air, and water, she takes care of herself and in turn supports others. Lately, I’ve been visiting her to bear witness to Nature’s Grace. A soft moss-covered boulder is the perfect seat to observe and learn about what it means to prepare for the dark days of winter. Each dropping leaf finds its own path based on its starting point, weight, the movement of surrounding air, and probably a myriad of other nuances. This equation affects the crinkled palm-shaped leaves’ flight and final resting place. Some drift toward the wild rose bushes and blackberry bramble, others float slowly down to the understory formed by an ancient volcanic flow, while many land on the rushing river like perfect boats carrying messages to others shores. Each leaf then provides cover and nutrients for so many insects and plant beings during winter so that they have the best chance to thrive. How wonderful it is to contemplate the wide influence this one tree has for this landscape. She teaches me the importance of honoring the cycle of life, that some things are better surrendered than hung onto, and that our simple and generous offerings can benefit others even without our knowing it. From my heart to yours, Christina Burress Board Member, OMEC
Dear Friend, I have always loved mountains. Growing up at the gateway to the White Mountains in New Hampshire (USA), my brother and I explored the many wooded acres surrounding our family home. The woods were not frequented by hikers and the closest neighbors were a few miles away. We had the forest very much to ourselves. On that wooded mountain we found old stone walls and abandoned foundations, remnants of mountain homesteads now long gone. Sometimes only a chimney remained standing, old stone laid perhaps one or even two hundred years ago, an odd sight amidst the younger trees. Maybe it was these ancient and dilapidated structures, taken by the forest, that inspired us to create our own forest homes: forts in all corners, made as kids do, with tree limbs and rocks, and kept clean with a good dust broom. There was something thrilling in discovering these special places, a grassy patch under a tree, the edge of the pond where the beaver played, or under sweeping branches of the grand hemlock. We returned to them again and again. We made fairy houses from pinecones and bark. We carried snacks of cornbread and left small signs of our having been there, like tiny toy cars and buried rocks and feathers. We visited our small homes away from home in all seasons. In the winter, the snow laid the branches heavy and low so we could crawl underneath them, blanketed and hidden from the world by snowflakes. In the spring, rain pummeled the delicate new leaves, filling the air with their fresh scent and dewy brightness. In the fall, the air became dry and crisp, and the leaves turned bright autumn rust and burgundy. When the sun grew strong it made the forest smell of pine and tree sap. I have been blessed to call many places home. If you are a traveler yourself, perhaps you understand. Still, it is the joy in returning and being with a place through all its seasons that for me brings the spirit alive, and the sight of mountains is a sign that I am home. What is it in a place that calls you home? From my heart to yours, Sayre Herrick OMEC Board of Directors 
Dear Friend, To know a snapping turtle is to know the ancient Earth. The common snapping turtle evolved 66 million years ago and lived alongside the dinosaurs on the land which is now North America. Most humans have neither the inclination nor the opportunity to know a snapping turtle well. I have had the pleasure of knowing several who required long-term care. I’d like to share a story with you about a snapping turtle named Shelley. Shelley is a 30-pound, two-foot-long, common snapping turtle who has lived most of her life in a pond behind a home occupied by three generations of caring humans. The family and their neighbors diligently watch their road to make sure no turtles are ever smushed by cars. The pond is a safe place for turtles to live. One day, though, Shelley came out of the pond walking with a limp due to a large growth on the bottom of her foot. The family knew to call a wildlife rehabilitation number and that is how I met Shelley. I am a volunteer wildlife rehabilitator licensed by my state to care for injured wildlife. I specialize in turtles. When the family reached out, I asked them to try to contain her for transport to me. Following my instructions, they went out with a big storage tub, but when they approached her, back into the pond went Shelley, including every other time they tried that summer. The following summer, when the growth had doubled in size and was limiting Shelley’s mobility even more, they were finally able to get her into the tub. While they were on the phone with me reporting their success, Shelley knocked the tub over and escaped into the pond again. The following morning, I answered another phone call from the family. They had her! She must have realized they were trying to help, because they found her waiting outside their back door. She allowed them to lift her into the tote and firmly close the lid over her. Another wildlife volunteer drove her to me. Shelley stayed in care for a year and was with me except for the month she spent at the Janet L. Swanson Wildlife Hospital at Cornell University (New York, USA), part of their veterinary medicine program. She had four surgeries on her foot to remove the growth and treat abscesses which were deep underneath. During her stay, she escaped her “hospital” tub so often that she earned her nickname Houdini. Thanks to Shamanic Reiki training, I can offer healing energy to all the animals in my care. I have channeled Reiki to a variety of animals, from chipmunks to frogs to pigeons. Turtles, however, are my favorite to work with, because they seem aware of the energy flow. Shelley was receptive, so I would rest my hands on her shell for a bit, then direct it towards her swollen foot, watching her for any sign she might snap. Sometimes a rumbling sound would emanate from her, which I could feel vibrating under my hands. You might be surprised to learn that the vibration is a snapping turtle’s song. I believe Shamanic Reiki contributes, if not to their healing, at least to my patients’ well-being, by reducing the stress of being in captivity while they are being cared for. In Shelley’s case, convincing her to remain in captivity was the challenge! Shelley’s human family has known her for much longer than I have, nearly three decades, and cared so deeply about her that they helped her get well. Last month, Shelley went home to her pond and is again being watched over. There are many ways to cultivate a sacred relationship with the Earth. From Shelley’s family, I learned that one way is to know a turtle. From my heart to yours. For the Earth. Debbie Philp OMEC HEARTH Circle guide 
Embedded within every being of Nature, humans included, is an evolutionary programming or a deep instinctual knowing that reveals who or what Mother Nature intended each being to be. Many indigenous cultures call this programming the “Original Instructions.” Here are some examples of the Original Instructions at play in Nature: Salmon instinctively finds its way to the ocean and after many years at sea, will return to the same river to spawn. Turtle returns again and again to the beach of birth to lay their eggs despite having traveled thousands of miles away from that beach. Plants in the sun share nutrients with plants in the shade, even with those of a different species. Humpback whales follow a yearly migration from Alaska to Maui so their calves will be born in warmer waters. Mycelial networks transmit information underneath a forest that creates a swarm intelligence that supports the entire ecosystem. The Original Instructions underlie the fundamental teleology of Nature, an instinctual drive in every being toward an ultimate purpose or toward an end. Everything in Nature seeks to grow beyond its current circumstances and reach its potential. In humans, the Original Instructions are no different. Just as a dandelion is fated to be a dandelion, and a shark a shark, humans are also gifted by the Earth with exactly what we need to be our authentic selves. As beings born of Earth, we arrive with fated dynamics, encoded as our Original Instructions that determine our family, features, sexuality, hardships, gifts, etc., and exist within us for an evolutionary purpose that serves all of Nature. James Lovelock’s Gaia Theory posits that the Earth behaves as a single organism and every being on Earth–from microbes to chimpanzees–plays its part in supporting that one organism. In other words, as every being follows its Original Instructions, it automatically fulfills its sacred purpose as a precious contributing factor to the health and maintenance of the one organism. But humans, unlike every other being in Nature, are often disconnected from their Original Instructions. Because of humans’ pervasive separation from the natural world, many have lost touch with their Instructions, and have forgotten their place in the larger connective and interdependent ecosystem that is their true home. As healers, mystics, ecologists, and stewards of the Earth, shepherding humanity’s reconnection with Nature is our sacred work. The Original Instructions are never far away from us to creatively engage with our lives. The Original Instructions are immediately accessed through the felt senses within the body, by creatively engaging with our individual desires and aversions–this is what everything in Nature is doing all the time. Nature is wildly interested in that which will bring it more life and wildly disinterested in that which won’t. So, no matter our current circumstances, or despite how far away we may have veered from our Instructions, if we tune into, legitimize, and act on the thoughts, desires, intentions, and life-dynamics that feel growthful, creative and evolutionary for us, and we do whatever we can to avoid those that don’t, we start to become more “like” Nature, and we attune to what Mother Earth intended for each of us in the first place. From my heart to yours, Jonathan Hammond 
Dear Friend, To venture outside of your comfort, when it comes to the outdoors, can be called many things: adventure, quest, journey, or simply, a walk. Depending on the person, it can look very different. Some quench the desire for breaking new ground by climbing Mt. Everest. Some find it in their own backyards. There is no right or wrong when it comes to getting to know the natural world. The important thing is that we do, respectfully, in our own way, find our connection. The living world is as complex and deep as our own psyche. It is natural that we may find there, an understanding of ourselves that goes deeper and wider than any intellectual pursuit. Through contact with the wild world, we find meaning through metaphor; we feel the touch of cool rock on our feet, the brush of grass against our hand, see the play of light on leaves, and take in the scents, which together create an orchestral memory. When I come across nature places I knew long ago, memories often emerge like hidden gems. The trees may be taller, and some are altogether gone. Many things may change, yet always there are remnants of what was before. Without disruption, whether from human development or from natural causes, the quality and memory of a place can be preserved for decades and longer in the trees, waterways, topography, and species of plants and animals. We, like the plants, animals, and rocks around us, are not anomalous in our existence. We are connected to the beginning of it all, linked by blood to a greater number of ancestral souls than we can logically comprehend. In our bones we contain the delicate and vulnerable blueprint, DNA, the memory, preserved through time, of us and those who came before us. I prepared my own type of quest in the wild recently. In early June, in the middle of an atmospheric river and severe downpour, I camped in the woods on the Kitsap Peninsula, WA State. This is the story of what happened, both true and beyond truth in the same way that a chrysalis in transition contains both caterpillar and butterfly, and still somehow, neither. It was the rain that whispered to me that night, through the howling wind. In its gentle way, it seeped into every crack and crevice and loosened the hard soils. It washed away the crust of grief and bitterness, grit, and pebble. A soft loam began to bloom from what had been ash. Through the wind and rain and sharp claps of thunder, we saw with our dreaming eyes, the spirits of the land were dancing. Their whooping and laughter could be heard echoing across the meadows. So, we danced with them and in our dancing and delight, we painted the edges of the leaves gold and draped the land with a feast of gems and silver. Slowly the skies began to lighten. For the Earth, Sayre Herrick OMEC Board of Directors |
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